


Broken Parts

by Relevant_Peach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Good Severus Snape, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Recovery, non-graphic animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 22:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relevant_Peach/pseuds/Relevant_Peach
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	Broken Parts

He’s still far too small, his tiny forearms that seem like they could snap like a twig, his knees knobbly, no sign of the chubby cheeks and round belly of his compatriots. His eyes appear too large for his face sometimes, and in the mornings, when he wakes, his long lashes flutter and you are haunted by how much he is like Lily.

Other times, you’re haunted by how little he is like Lily. Not that he’s like James either, though. He flinches around loud noises, and you’ve had to physically stop him from scrubbing the bathroom floor on more than one occasion. He cries in his sleep, and the fact that he never makes a noise while doing so breaks your non-existent heart.

He hides food. You know he does, but haven’t confronted him about it, you merely cast a surreptitious stasis charm on the space underneath the floorboard. It makes him feel safe, having something in reserve, and Merlin knows it isn’t going to hurt him to eat some extra snacks outside of meals. You make sure that there are plenty of portable, easily hidden foods available, and allow him enough time to secret the packets of biscuits under his jumper and squirrel them away upstairs.

He gets lost sometimes, in memories and sensation from his previous life. He dropped a glass the week prior, and became so suddenly and terrifyingly still that you were certain he wasn’t breathing. You reached for your wand, to banish the shards, and he was abruptly all movement, diving under the kitchen table, muttering “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” and trembling so violently that you could hear his teeth juddering. It took forty-five minutes to coax him back out, and for the first thirty, you were positive that he didn’t even know you were there.

He watches you constantly, but never while you’re watching him. Since you watch him just as often, the two of you are in a stalemate, peeking around corners and peering over the edges of books at one another. He reminds you of a feral animal sometimes, watchful and hesitant and wary. You don’t know what it will take to make him trust you. You hope you’ll figure it out.

You find yourself speaking more carefully than normal to him. You’ll never be a kind man, and you’ll never suffer fools, but he isn’t a fool, and he doesn’t remember kindness. You are careful to keep the volume of your words low, and you’re pleased that when you spilled scalding tea over your hand yesterday, you didn’t swear, or shout, merely remarked, “Ouch,” and summoned a tea towel. 

He’s making you soft. After catching him out of bed for the umpteenth time, and silently watching from the shadows, you realized the purpose of his nighttime wanderings. It had perplexed you for days. The charm you placed to notify you that he was getting out of bed would sound, tiny footsteps would patter across the floor, his door would open near soundlessly, and then, equally quietly, close. You stood in your shadowy corner, flummoxed, until it occurred to you. He was checking to ensure that the door wouldn’t be locked. You’d told him you wouldn’t, and he was making sure that you kept your promise. The following morning, he watched you solemnly as you removed his bedroom door handle. “It will swing closed to give you privacy,” you said, “but cannot be locked.” He didn’t say a word, but a tiny wrinkle in his forehead relaxed, just a little, and you felt something inside you relax just as much.

He is your penance. Each time you watch him silently thrash in a nightmare, or watch his shoulders slump when you prevent him from cleaning something, you remind yourself that this is what you have wrought. Each mouthful of food that you coax him to swallow is a silent prayer of apology. Every flinch is a moment of purgatory, and you accept your due with stoicism.

But…he’s not all shards and tatters. He happened upon some bigger boys who were tormenting a kitten last week. The kids were hulking, mean, and he thrust himself into the fray, 100 cm of angry, righteous warrior. The altercation lasted less than a minute. You’ve been terrified to let him out of your sight, and had been right beside him when he heard the kitten’s terrified mewls. He’d taken off like a bolt of lightning, and in the time it took you to catch up, he was berating the boys, his eyes ablaze, stubborn chin lifted up as his face grew red with each shouted word. You’d stealthily palmed your wand, but it wasn’t needed. The boys were visibly startled, and it had taken only a raised eyebrow on your part before they stumbled away. 

So now you have a kitten. He calls it ‘Hiss’, since that all it’s done since coming home with them. He’s inordinately patient for a child his age, spending hours flat on his belly beside the sideboard, attempting to coax his new friend to come out. You hear him whisper, “He’s tall, but he doesn’t hit,” and you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry that it’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about you in years.

He desperately wants to help you in the lab, and you set him to cleaning gurdy roots. He performs his task with a measured, desperate diligence and when you praise the finished product, his cheeks pink and you swear that you see a tiny smile when he ducks his head to hide behind his hair. When he’s not able to help, he sits on a stool in the corner encased in a bubblehead charm, watching your every movement. 

The only thing that can override his fears and his hesitation is his insatiable curiosity. You take to producing an obscure charm that does little more than produce interestingly shaped smoke, just to entice him to come closer and watch.

You’ve never been someone comfortable with physical affection, and that suits him just fine. You’re careful when you need to touch him, telegraphing your intentions in advance, narrating what will happen next. You gently apply the healing salve to the whip marks on his back, trying not to look at the scars that you were too late to heal. He’ll carry these scars for the rest of his life, and you spend hours researching, after he’s gone to bed, desperate to find a way to wipe him clean of his past.

Your heart plummets to your feet when Dumbledore arrives, incongruently garbed in cheerful robes of magenta. You’ve seen that expression before…when you begged to be allowed to stay in the castle over the summer holidays…when you watched him send his beloved Gryffindors away after their attempted murder with a detention…when you sobbed at the hem of his robes and agreed to do anything if he’d protect Lily. 

“Well then, my boys,” Dumbledore says cheerily. You’ve hated being called a boy since you _were_ one, and from the flinch in the tiny body standing beside you, you’re not the only one. “I’ve good news!”

“Oh?” You manage, admirably, to keep the rising dread from leeching into your voice.

“Indeed, my boy, indeed. We’ve found a more permanent living arrangement for our young friend.”

“Where?”

“The Weasleys have agreed to take him in.”

You feared this. The Weasleys, while kind and generous, will provide the exact wrong environment. It’s too loud, too chaotic. There’s no structure. “Headmaster-”

“Now now, it will all turn out wonderfully. I’m sure-”

“Was it you?” His youthful voice is quiet, trembling, but he stares at the Headmaster with an unwavering gaze.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dumbledore says.

“Did you put me there? With my Aunt and Uncle?”

“I did, to my eternal shame,” is Dumbledore’s eventual answer. He seems to have a hard time looking away from the rings that adorn his hands.

“Then you aren’t a good decider. I don’t want to go with those Weasleys.”

“Harry-”

“No!” 

There is a small, perverse part of you that wants to let this play out, let him verbally eviscerate the engineer of this travesty, but, despite his defiant little glare, the child is terrified. You speak. “Harry.” Wide eyes meet yours. “Would you like to be the decider?” He nods. “And where would you like to go, child?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, for such a long time that you’re about to give up, but finally, he whispers, “I want to stay here.”

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore begins, “you must understand that I have your best interest at heart-”

“No. More. Talking,” the child says, pointing his finger at Dumbledore as though he’s a particularly naughty dog and focuses his attention back on you.

“Are you certain? There are many other families that would be delighted to give you a home. Wonderful families, with other children, and every material thing you could dream of owning,” you say. It’s vitally important that he understand that he has nearly limitless options, each better than this.

Harry nods. “You took me from there. Saved me. I want to stay with you.” He regards you for a long, appraising moment. “If you’d let me.”

“That would be acceptable,” you say, even though you hadn’t really considered it before this moment. 

You’ve never wanted to be a parent. You never thought that you’d love anyone again, not after Lily. But somehow, this tiny, damaged child has wormed his determined way beneath your defences. It isn’t because he’s Lily’s son. It isn’t because his upbringing was like your own. It isn’t because he’s a defender of the helpless or because he watches you brew like he’s witnessing the Devine. There isn’t an explanation, and it’s madness to even consider it, let alone agree so readily.

And yet. Damaged as you both are, there’s a _rightness_ to the way that your scars compliment one another. Your broken parts line up to make a whole. And, most compellingly, this is the first thing that Harry has asked for in all the time since he took your outstretched hand and let you lead him from the cupboard where those monsters were storing him. You’ll be damned if you refuse him.

“I really must insist-” Dumbledore starts again, but your interruption is swift, and cold.

“You had your opportunity to arrange for Harry’s care, and you chose poorly. You will help us. You will go to your Ministry, and you will arrange that I become his legal guardian. You will do this immediately, and you will return to your school, and you will cease your meddling. If you refuse, I will take Harry, and we will disappear, and all of the whirring and spinning gadgets in the world won’t help you find him. Do you understand me?”

“I…Yes, I understand. Harry, I’m so sorry, I never-”

“You should go,” Harry says quietly, and takes a small step closer to your side. You feel a small hand tuck itself into yours, and you squeeze it gently. He squeezes back.

Dumbledore leaves, quiet and pensive, although you’re not convinced that this will cause a change of character on his part. Nevertheless, it’s just you, and Harry, and a cat named Hiss, and that’s quite enough to be getting on with.


End file.
